


The Relic and the Reliquary

by Silverskye13



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Self-Acceptance, Self-Reflection, When I know a little more about the story and all it entails, ill edit these tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-07 22:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19859176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverskye13/pseuds/Silverskye13
Summary: Quirrel has grown used to his gaps in memory. A symptom of his quest, he's come to appreciate them as a way of viewing the dying world around him without the lens of sadness and misery he is sure he would feel otherwise. However, on the odd occasion his mind decides to fill a gap, it enraptures his attention.Lurien the Watcher? Why in the world was he chosen, of all people? He's a hermit, stuck up in that tower day in and day out. What's the King thinking, making him a Dreamer?His quest for Monomon over, but not quite yet ready to give in to the stiffness of his aging, Quirrel decides to investigate one final mystery. One last memory worth following before he puts down his nail completely. After all, he knows of Herrah the Beast, and he knew once, very well, Monomon the Teacher. But it seems odd to him that Lurien, as important as he seemed once to have been, would slip his mind completely.At the very least, he's sure it will make for an interesting story.





	1. Tone Deaf

“Oh! Good morning Monomon. What's brought you all the way out here?”

There was no reply of course. Monomon hadn't spoken directly to anyone or anything in quite some time, and unless there still existed some magic that he was unaware of, she would never speak to anyone or anything ever again. Though after a moment's pondering, Quirrel did have to admit it wasn't _quite_ so strange he saw Monomon so far from the City of Tears. It must make sense for the dead to rest in a resting ground, after all. That's what resting grounds were generally used for.

_~~Monomon was resting?~~ _

Monomon was _dead_.

Hm. That was still a thought to get used to. 

He'd only _just_ remembered she was ever alive to begin with, after all. And he only _just_ remembered everything _worth_ remembering about her. At least, that was his assumption. There were wide swaths of his memory still about as empty as a wandering husk - but he caught glimpses of things sometimes. Things in dreams, in visions. Strong feelings that twisted his guts around when he smelled certain smells or heard certain sounds. Vague feelings of familiarity, the gentle brush of partial memories against the inside of his mask like lumafly wings. Things he figured were once important to him, if only he had the context. 

But that was the _past_ , mostly harmless in hindsight despite its odd treacheries. _Presently_ , Quirrel stood underneath the looming statue of the Dreamers in the Resting Grounds. It had startled him at first to see the massive monument here, but in hindsight he supposed it made sense. They were called _Dreamers_ , after all. Certainly, they were _resting_. Perhaps not in the traditional sense - yet - but it still made sense to him. 

Quietly, Quirrel paced circle around the monument, slowly, so as to take in every antenna-length of the crumbling stone. The monolith had stood the test of time so far with mixed success. The ambient moisture in the air from the near constant coating of mist seeped into the pores of the stone, gathering to run in rivulets down its sides at times; wearing smooth what craftsman had once chiseled with earnest reverence. The carving itself was rather abstract, three tall pillars inscribed with the arrow-point lines of simplified carapace joints, the softened features of the masks at the top the only real indication of which statue was which. There was also, inscribed at the foot of each of the pillars, a line of text, cut deep into the stone so it was still legible. Quirrel had to squint at it to read it properly in the dim light.

“Monomon the Teacher, in her archive surrounded by fog and mist,” Quirrel hummed, dipping his head in a reverent acknowledgement of his Teacher, at that mask whose eyes he’d stared at for as long as he could remember, and likely much longer besides, “Herrah the Beast, in her Den, amidst the deep darkness beyond the kingdom.”

Deepnest, he knew. Quirrel had been there once, and while it had been manageable, it was wholly unpleasant. Herrah must be a fearsome beast indeed to make her Den there. Quirrel had always thought that - or at least, for as long as he’d remembered to think it. Though he supposed Herrah and her Weavers were about the most fearsome thing to ever exist in Deepnest, so perhaps it wasn’t such an almighty feat that she made her Den in the darkness there. 

Finally, Quirrel stopped at the front of the dais, looking up at the final mask, “Lurien the Watcher, in his Spire looking over the city.”

“The Three Dreamers,” Quirrel spoke aloud, and then reading the final inscription on the monument’s platform, his voice muffled slightly as it lilted through the damp mist, “To protect the Vessel, the Dreamers lay sleeping. Through their devotion, Hollownest lasts eternal.”

Quirrel looked up at the statue and he realized he’d started to hold his breath. It was so quiet here, and his voice so loud against it, he could fool himself into thinking some great thing was supposed to happen. Like he’d spoken a spell, or perhaps like he’d broken one - much like the moment he’d held up Monomon’s mask and watched as with a flashing of radiance she moved from shapeless being sealed away to a familiar face, familiar presence. Now he waited. He waited for light, or sound, or _something_. Something he’d never seen before. Something magical, or spellbinding.

And then he let out the breath he was holding.

Nothing.

Well, he wasn’t sure _what_ he was expecting. Something to satisfy his curiosity maybe, or to give him some sort of purpose. A new adventure perhaps to make his old age a little more interesting. A continuation of everything he’d just ended. _Answers_.

Nothing. 

Feeling a little cheated that some grand adventure hadn’t just fallen into his lap, Quirrel cast his gaze to the side to inspect the nearest gravestone - only to find with a startled shout that it was not a _gravestone_ standing shortly beside him, but The Knight. It too startled at the sound of his voice, though It didn’t make nearly the inglorious screech Quirrel did - simply mirroring Quirrel’s flinch as both of their hands went instinctively to nails they’d forgotten they were carrying. 

Quirrel laughed, his voice ringing out in the damp air around them, “Gods _above,_ you can’t go sneaking up on me like that. I could’ve taken your mask clean off your shoulders.”

The Knight paused, and then slowly tilted Its head to the side.

“Yes, I know you’re more than capable of handling yourself,” Quirrel hummed. Looking back up at the statue, he added distantly, “But still… tempting fate and all that.”

They stood together in silence that Quirrel chose to read as companionable. In the distance somewhere stone settled against stone, echoing through the endless caverns and warping the resounding noise into something odd and misheard. The Knight looked from him to the statue and back again, expecting something. 

“You know,” Quirrel said, “It occurs to me that I don’t know much about The Dreamers outside of Monomon.”

The Knight tilted Its head to the side just a bit as if expecting an explanation - and Quirrel gave it one.

“Monomon I remember in bits and pieces. I get the feeling that I knew her personally on some level. She had a soft voice that sort of rumbled as she spoke, like lumifies about to light themselves. I know she was an archivist, and a historian. I know she created things,” Quirrel cast his gaze towards the mask with six eyes, “Herrah the Beast I don’t remember the sight of, but I remember… if I think on it hard enough… bits of stories about her. And there was a sense of fear and wonder in me when I walked near her nest. And Lurien? The name is almost completely foreign to me. It sounds like a name I might know, but I remember nothing attached to it. No lore, no history.”

Quirrel looked back down at The Knight, who’s empty mask still looked up at him, “And yet all of them must have been important to all be chosen as Dreamers. Hand-picked by the King as they were. You would think, given the time I must have spent with Monomon -”

Quirrel trailed off for a moment, shook his head and then said, “Though I suppose it’s a bit presumptuous to think I was important enough to know so many powerful bugs. Perhaps I was a student of Monomon’s who just happened to be picked for the task of carrying her mask? Perhaps I was chosen because I was expendable, or maybe even because I was a criminal and bound to leave the kingdom on my own anyway?”

Quirrel’s eyes narrowed a bit in a smile, “It’s of little worth now I suppose.”

The Knight watched him vacantly, but Quirrel could almost hear the gears in Its head turning. It seemed to get an air about It, something about the way Its posture shifted that made It look more contemplative. Then It drew Its nail, deliberately slowly, as if making sure It didn’t startle Quirrel with the movement. It scraped the sharp tip of the nail against the stone floor, filling the air with the shrieks of metal on stone. When It was done, It had scratched a little symbol into the floor, one Quirrel recognized. He’d seen it in the city of tears before.

“What’s that?”

The Knight didn’t explain. Quirrel had never heard the Knight speak and was beginning to think it went beyond something as simple as having a stoic disposition - though he was sure it would be too rude to ask if that was the case. Instead of explaining Itself, the Knight simply pointed to Quirrel, and to Itself, and back down to the little symbol.

“You think it’s worth making a trip back to the City of Tears?”

The Knight nodded. 

Hmm. The City of Tears from the Resting Grounds.

 _That’s a long walk_.

It occurred to Quirrel that his legs were sore already. In spite of how long he’d rested at Blue Lake, the walk here had wearied him much more than he figured it should have. Not because it was a particularly hard walk. It certainly paled in comparison to the journey he’d taken through the kingdom so far. He wondered if he was really losing his vitality so quickly now that Monomon’s Mask, and whatever spell it had on it, had left him. 

“If you say so,” Quirrel hummed, “Though you’ll have to forgive me, I move a bit slower now. Perhaps I should meet you there?”

The Knight shrugged and then turned to begin walking - in the wrong direction for the City, Quirrel realized. He blinked confusedly after the Knight for a moment, only to have the little warrior stop a dozen or so paces of the path and turn back to face him. It cocked Its head to the side expectantly for a moment, and then with an air of impatience waved him to follow. A bit confused, Quirrel walked to join him, sighing past his own stiffness as he went. He’d been standing still for too long. What an obnoxious problem to have, though certainly not the worst thing his newfound aging could have brought with it.

They walked in silence among the gravestones for a time, Quirrel pleasantly surprised when he could keep pace - only to remember the Knight was half his size and had to walk two strides for his every one.

At length Quirrel said, “It does seem a bit like a song or something, doesn’t it? Like it could be a nursery rhyme for eggs and grubs.”

It tilted Its head at him, prompting him to continue. Quirrel said in a sing-song voice, “Monomon the _Tea_ cher in her ar _chive_ , floating down _deep_ where the fog and acid _thrives_ \- ! Lurien the _Wa_ tcher in his tower _tall_ , his Spire in the _City_ watching o’er us _all_ \- !”

Quirrel couldn’t tell for certain, but he thought he saw the Knight stiffen, as if the tune he picked didn’t set well with It. Quirrel offered an apologetic smile.

“Apologies my little friend. I was never graced with too gifted a singing voice," he chuckled, "You get the idea I was going for at least?"

This gleaned him a slow nod in return, cautious almost, as the Knight continued to watch him critically. Whatever It was thinking, It didn’t elaborate, and didn’t deem it worth the effort to try and convey the thought. Eventually, It simply turned Its head back to the path ahead as It lead them further into the Resting Grounds. Quirrel drank in the sight of the place as best he could as they were moving. Old but well-tended, crumbling but loved. It was a peaceful place. It didn’t instill in him the same stillness of soul that Blue Lake did - Quirrel figured he could rest forever in that water and could be content. But the very air of the Resting Grounds seemed to make him feel tired in the most comfortable sense of the word. Like he could curl up in a dark corner somewhere and slip into a peaceful sort of never-ending sleep.

The prize at the end of their short walk was a Stag Station, and much to Quirrel’s starry-eyed amazement, there was still a single old stag who ran it. With a little less grace than he wished, Quirrel clambered onto the great creature’s abdomen and made himself comfortable in one of the seats while the Knight opened Its map to show the creature their destination. Then with a lurch and the rumble of heavy steps they were off, nearly _flying_ with speed as the stag ran them down the old runways. The tunnels were old but sturdy, and Quirrel made creatures and shapes of the textures on the walls as they passed. Under his breath he hummed quietly the tune he’d now managed to get stuck in his head.

_...Dreamers dreaming, Dreamers sleeping_

_The King he took you in his reaping_

_For the Vessel you're safe-keeping..._

He was forgetting something. He knew he was forgetting something. It was a familiar feeling to him now, that floating absence where there should be something of substance. He probed at it for a moment, shuffling through words that might possibly rhyme with the last one he'd thought up, hoping something would click into place in the massive empty space that was the inside of his head. 

_Keeping... keeping... creeping? Sleeping? Sleeping... Leaping? Weeping?_

What a sad song that would be, if the word he was looking for was 'weeping'. No he didn't want the silly tune to be so unpleasant.

One of the shadows they passed as they ran looking like a great mask, and Quirrel distractedly imagined what it would be like to meet a bug the size of a Wyrm. A bug that would dwarf Monomon or Uumuu. A bug so massive it could only be a god to someone as small and insignificant as him.

 _Steeping? Sleeping. Reaping?_ Reaping was already in the rhyme. _Seeping. Steeping? Beeping?_ _Did that even count as a word?_

It didn't occur to Quirrel until just before he slipped off to sleep on the rolling back of the great old stag, that perhaps he hadn't thought up the tune all by himself, and that was why he had such a hard time finding the rest of the lyrics. 


	2. What An Age To Live In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we make a new friend ?

_The ground had been shaking for a while now. A rumble he could feel through every inch of his carapace. He wondered if it had anything to do with The Affliction. Some new incarnation of the menace. Or perhaps he was falling for it. He’d always considered himself weak minded. Prone to dreaming. The world was so wide and wondrous, and here he lived in an age where seeing wonder was punishable by death. The shaking was getting heavier. Like a heartbeat, a pulse, a rhythm._

_He shouldn’t be speaking. He shouldn’t be speaking. He was in the presence of greater minds than his, minds so strong they cracked the cornerstones of creation itself, and they weren’t paying attention to him anyway. There was a light in the room, and it hurt to look at it, so he kept his eyes on the Teacher. She normally looked so frightful, but she was a candle under a blazing summer sun, and she was wilting like softened wax under the weight of the heat of it, pressed in on all sides by white so pure it stung._

_“Why is **he** here?”_

_The rumbling was getting louder. It ground every joint together as if it could shake him apart. He’d never felt such a weight on his shoulders nor a gaze nearly so piercing. How frightful. He’d never considered himself a lesser being but here he was nothing more than a particle of dust before a windstorm shaken loose by the breath of god._

_What an age to live in that i t w a s a c r i m e t o . . . ._

Quirrel awoke with a start a moment after the stag had come to a stop. He couldn’t have been sleeping long. There was a dryness in his mouth and a heavy fog in the back of his mind that came from a fitful rest. It was a feeling he was used to brushing off though. How many times in his life had he snatched naps and winks of sleep while listening to the world around him for danger? Still how terribly rude it must have been for him to doze off while the Knight was left to Its own devices waiting on the running to stop.

Ah, the running. That’s right. No wonder he hadn’t slept well. The jolting and rumbling of the stag in motion had crept its way into his dreams. He was honestly surprised he’d slept at all, light sleeper that he was. Perhaps he’d sensed he was safe, and had simply let his guard down? The alternative, that he was once again feeling his age, was a thought he brushed off into the back of his mind as quickly as he could stow it, even as he stood and stretched and _ached_ from the stiffness in his body. By God and Wyrm, he’d lived this long without such annoyance and he’d refuse to let it stop him now. There was work to be done, mysteries to solve, wonders to behold.

The Knight had already disembarked from the stag and was currently checking Its map, a habit Quirrel found a bit odd. He’d seen It come through here before. Surely It knew Its way around by now? Though Quirrel supposed he shouldn’t judge too harshly. He still found The City of Tears to be a bit labyrinthine at times. It was in a bug’s nature to navigate tunnels and burrows. The square structures and layouts and order of the City was foreign and confusing and full of hard corners that seemed to prick at the senses. The bugs of Hallownest had always had difficulty navigating here, even with signposts and gateways to guide them.

_Hm. Now just where had that thought come from?_

There was that familiar void in his memory. Like a missing tooth he found the space left behind to be fascinating and annoying and would always go back to worry at it and see if something had grown while he wasn’t paying attention. Some part of him seemed to remember he’d traveled here when it was vibrant and busy, and that part of him remembered being addled and lost. Though like so many things in Hallownest he lacked whatever context for the information he once had; leaving behind only the vague idea and something like muscle memory to tell him it had ever existed in the first place. 

He made note of the fact to himself and joined the Knight as It strode deeper into the city.

It was a simple walk for a pair of warriors, ambling between storerooms and old homes and dancing between husks. Many of the more benign creatures they could simply avoid, though once or twice nails were drawn to confront sentries and guards still cycling through their eternal patrols. The Knight probably could have handled them all on Its own, given how proficient It was with that sparkling nail It carried. But It seemed to recognize in Quirrel the desire to help if he could, and so It moved with the somewhat careless ease of a creature aware someone else was watching Its back - and Quirrel found his own guard lowering with the same sentiment. There was something relieving about knowing you weren’t fighting alone, a rarity to be savored, like peace and quiet. 

At length they made it to one of the large buildings on the main street, where Quirrel once again glimpsed the sign the Knight had scratched into the ground for him. Then up a short elevator into a warm, dusty room streaked with mottled light from a large glass window overlooking the square. 

Quirrel found himself suddenly and abruptly standing in The Archives. The rainfall outside shifted instantly to the persistent hiss of acid carbonating the insides of tall glass tanks. He was standing in his study surrounded by stacks of weaver silk parchment and journal stones. There was a King’s Idol with its pale, seeping glow squirreled away in a box in the far corner, it’s presence nearly palpable. He’d never been the praying sort, no. Even less so had he ever enjoyed paperwork. He knew nails and he knew tactics and he didn’t know why he was here of all places. But here he was filing paperwork and waiting -? Yes, waiting on a student to come and pick up that blasted box and deliver it somewhere. The temptation was there to open the box himself and study the idol and see why it stood apart from any other, like some holy “Spot the Difference” game with God’s stoic face. He’d never been the praying type but the world was dark, darker each day and Monomon was upset because of a miscalculation in her reports and now Quirrel needed to find where the problem was before they went on the tram tomorrow but he couldn’t find what he was looking for because he didn’t even rightly remember what it was he needed -

\- and there was a sharp _wap!_ against his wrist and Quirrel was standing in a dusty little room with a great view of the square beside a mountain of relics that cluttered their shelves so _fiercely_ it seemed any minute they might all bow and break and snap in half and send their contents spilling like the world’s most historically priceless waterfall all across the floor. Quirrel rubbed his wrist with his off-hand and cast his gaze to the offending bug with a distant and slightly annoyed, “... beg pardon…?”

“Beg pardon _indeed!_ ” came the indignant huff of a reply, “Do you often make it a habit of stealing off the shelves of every bug you meet, or was I just the lucky one?”

For the life of him Quirrel had no idea what the grouse old bug was talking about, because for all he knew he’d just been teleported back to Monomon’s studies and then yo-yoed _abruptly_ right back into the present again with enough whiplash to crack his own shell. He blinked down at the bug before him for a moment, feeling a bit stupid in his own confusion, and then back to the shelf he was standing beside. There, at nearly his eye level, sat a King’s Idol. 

Quirrel’s mouth hardened into a contemplative line. No… he couldn’t remember this _particular_ idol. It simply looked like… well… how any other King’s Idol might look, stoic in the visage of the Pale King. But regardless it gave off that… down-to-the-soul familiar _tug_ , like you were standing at the farthest edge of an outstretched shadow of greatness. And the overwhelming smell of weaver silk parchment and the clutter of papers in the room was just thick enough to flip his senses tail-over-teakettle. Even though he’d never been here before, the phantoms of familiarity clung to every surface like drops of water. In the smells. In the sounds. In the colors.

“Ah, I must apologize,” Quirrel said, finally recovering some bit of his scattered senses, “My mind’s a bit... addled. I assure you I haven’t come here to steal anything. The Knight here was actually just hoping you could help me with uh… something.”

W… why was he here again? Oh… By _Gods_ and _Wyrm_ and _all hell_ in between! He needed to pull himself together.

The bug before him squinted at him intensely behind his mask, and it seemed his long trailing beard nearly bristled with whatever disgruntled thoughts he was lumbering through. In the bug’s hand he brandished a short wooden rod as though it were a fearsome nail, though there was a clumsiness in his grip that suggested the bug wasn’t normally a nail-wielder. It looked a bit more like he’d been using the rod for something, and it had been the most convenient thing to hit Quirrel with when he’d reached for the shelf. He was a stout bug, taller than the Knight but only about as tall as Quirrel’s shoulder, and he emanated the same friendly, welcoming, _approachable_ energy one might expect to feel when confronting a mawlurk.

Hoping to clear the air a bit, Quirrel smiled and offered a hand forward placatingly, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Quirrel.”

The bug ignored his hand but did seem to relax a bit from openly hostile to mildly annoyed, “Relic Seeker Lemm. Now. What _exactly_ are you here for?”

Ah, right. Quirrel hadn’t quite figured that out yet. He glanced behind Lemm to the Knight, who had been content to watch the entire, awkward fiasco from afar with what might have been mild enjoyment, if Its blank facade revealed anything whatsoever of Its thoughts. It matched his gaze for a moment, and then pointed out the window to the square as if in explanation. 

“Oh! _Oh right,”_ Quirrel gasped suddenly, causing Lemm to give a start in surprise, “The Dreamers. I found -! Well, that is, I _remembered_ -!”

Quirrel waved a hand, as if the motion could shoo away the jumbled mess of his thoughts and place them in order again. Finally he managed, “I found a statue about The Dreamers out by the Resting Grounds, and it occurred to me that I don’t know much about them. And the Knight here recommended… I suppose… that I visit you and ask.”

Quirrel looked around the shop and felt everything start to click into place in his mind. _Of course_ the Knight would bring him here. Aside from Quirrel himself, there was likely no one alive who knew anything about the Dreamers - not firsthand, anyway. But a Relic Seeker? Surely they would know something-

“Well you’ve wasted your time,” Lemm said shortly, “I know nothing about the Dreamers, or whatever their weird Hollow Knight is, outside of the statues.”

Quirrel felt his hopes flutter and blink out like so many dying lumaflies in his chest, “Oh… _really?_ You haven’t found _anything_ else?”

“Well it’s obvious they were important,” Lemm sniffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest and bunching up his beard in the process, “ _Too_ important. In their time everyone likely knew everything about them, so no one ever really bothered to write it down.”

“I - Surely not.”

“It’s happened before,” Lemm persisted, “Ever heard of the White Palace?”

“Um… yes.”

“Care to tell me where it is?”

Quirrel blinked once, then twice, “I… don’t know.”

“Big old white palace, glittering with tapestries and artifacts and geo and craftsmanship, where a literal Wyrm among bugs walked,” Lemm said with increasing impatience, as though the mere thought of it all embittered him, “And not a single text will tell you where it is. _Why?_ Because it was so big and gorgeous and _obvious_ no one back then would have missed it, would they? But when people like you and me go waltzing around ages later, there’s no map left behind is there?”

Well… Quirrel had never thought about it like that, had he? He certainly never chronicled his life, not that he could _remember_ anyway. The arts by which he used his nail, the paths he’d traveled, even what little he’d remembered about Monomon. Of course he hadn’t written it down. What bug nowadays had the time? And for what purpose? To be courteous to whoever might stumble upon your corpse once you’re gone - _if_ they manage to find it? He supposed it made sense, then, that the knowledge and history of the Kingdom would be so sparse.

Regardless though, it was frustrating. So much for his grand quest for answers.

_Answers to what? Why was this so important? Why bother?_

“I suppose if you’re _really_ curious - and you have a _death wish_ \- there’s a place you could try looking,” Lemm hummed after a moment, “Follow me, and _don’t touch anything_.”

With a grumble he turned and retreated behind his counter, revealing a door that had been previously so hidden behind the clutter of various relics that Quirrel hadn’t even realized it was a door at all. He looked to the Knight who was already making Its way through the open doorway. With a bracing sigh and a glance up to the ceiling as if some higher power might come down and give him a blessing for his trouble, Quirrel followed. 

The room beyond was surely an office or work environment of some sort at one point in time - the large bay window and open room layout suggested as much. But regardless Lemm had quite comfortably converted the space into a home. There was a bed set up in the corner nearest the glass, a small table across from it with a few unwashed dishes stacked there. There was a makeshift stove made of cobbled together parts that seemed in need of a little washing, a clothesline hung up further into the room. And of course, a small desk area covered in more relics. This was where Lemm was heading off to now. He picked up a stone on the table - one of many it seemed like and spoke with his regular impatience as the Knight and Quirrel joined him.

“I’ve been led to believe there’s a library of sorts in the City of Tears,” Lemm hummed, flashing them what Quirrel now recognized as a Wanderer’s Journal, “Took a while to translate this bug’s writing, but it seems the adventurous fool stumbled onto it while they were exploring the city. Might have some information on your Dreamers there, if you feel like cutting your way through a thousand husks to find it. For your sake, I hope that nail isn’t just for show.”

Quirrel looked at the journal, blinking uncomprehendingly at the symbols etched into the surface. For a moment he let himself marvel that Lemm could even decipher it at all.

“Does it say where they found it?”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Lemm spat bitterly, “And it’s a damn shame too. I’d love to see it myself. Can you _imagine_ the bounds of knowledge just _sitting there_ for someone to find? Of course, the journal is vague enough. For all we know it was someone’s personal library, or just a stack of melted together weaver’s silk. The wanderer here seemed to think it was impressive though, so I’d wager it was a bit more substantial.”

Lemm paused and then added, “That’s the _hope_ anyway.”

Quirrel blinked down at the journal again, “It could be anywhere then. Like... finding a maskfly in a mantis den.”

“ _Exactly_ , and dangerous,” Lemm cautioned once again, “Our wanderer here was wounded when they found it. That’s why they left. They didn’t say _what_ did it, but with all the husks and guards still wandering around here, and whatever number of creatures could have made a warren of the buildings here besides?”

Quirrel nodded, not entirely sure what to feel. It seemed his grand adventure, whatever that was, was still possible… but difficult. Little chance of success, every opportunity he could get himself injured or killed. 

He glanced down to the Knight, “And I don’t suppose you’d be willing to join me on my fool’s errand?”

The Knight tilted Its head to the side for a moment, pondering the idea, and then finally shook Its head. It pulled Its map from Its inventory and pointed to it, an attempt at an explanation. The Knight was looking for something, and whatever that something was, it held more importance than Quirrel’s curiosity. 

Quirrel nodded, “Alright… well I suppose it can’t be helped then.”

He squared his shoulders, “You wouldn’t happen to know of any other rooms around here secure enough to stay in?”

Lemm blinked at him, “You mean you’ll actually _try it?_ ”

“I don’t see why not,” Quirrel smiled, “I’ve been living by my nail and my wits as long as I can remember. I don’t see how this is any different.”

His smile faded a bit, and his gaze unfocused to the far wall, “Besides I’m… not sure what else I’d be doing. My purpose has spent itself.”

He could feel more than he could rightly _see_ Lemm’s scrutiny, the bug obviously put off by the cryptic statement. But how else could Quirrel elaborate? Should he just quietly explain he was ageless enough to have known one of the Dreamers _personally_ by some magic that existed but he knew nothing about, and that she had sent him on a lifelong quest that had been obliterated from his memory while he was in the wastes, and now she was dead and he could feel the end of his life rapidly approaching like an ache in his guts but he had lived through far too much to just live out the rest of his days in comfort somewhere waiting to fall asleep and never wake up? Or that he was scared without a constant task of exploration and discovery or some Bigger Unknowable Plan to keep his mind company, he was sure he would catch The Affliction that had cursed all these other bugs and wander around mindlessly until someone like The Knight made sure he saw the sharper side of a nail because he was at his heart of hearts his own kind of dreamer with his own weak little mind standing at the foot of an angry god _and what an age it was to live in that dreaming was a crime?_

Well, that thought had come out of nowhere. And he realized he’d been staring at that back wall for quite some time.

How awkward.

“Beg pardon?”

“I _said_ ,” Lemm groused, glaring at him again, “Unless you want to go clear out some of the upper rooms yourself, _no_ , this is the safest floor. There’s a large enough closet in here though, probably used for utilities or something, if you’d like to set up your bed there.”

Lemm grimaced tensely, “Though I’m starting to think better of the offer.”

“Oh, well that’s very kind of you,” Quirrel said, smiling apologetically, “I promise I won’t get in your way.”

“ _Please_ don’t touch the relics,” Lemm said severely, “And you’re in charge of your own… your own _everything_. I don’t cook, I don’t clean up after people -!”

“Of course, of course,” Quirrel found himself chuckling. 

“And this is only until you find that blasted library!” Lemm cautioned, “And then you’ll be on your way, understand?”

Afraid he’d upset the bug further by laughing at how ridiculous he sounded, Quirrel simply smiled and nodded. What an easily flustered bug. But Lemm seemed to be calming a bit already, a bit of the stiffness relaxing from his shoulders, “You _will_ tell me as soon as you find it, right?”

“Of course,” Quirrel chuckled, “What good is discovering something marvelous if you’ve got no one to share it with?”

Lemm rolled his eyes.

The Knight watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //sticks my leggy out real far//  
> I like playing with run-on sentences. They're fun. Add a little zest to your pasta.
> 
> I am very tired and going to sleep now. Be safe all !


End file.
